


Moment's Silence

by Insaneroot



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, First Kiss, POV Alternating, non-specific non canon canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22098553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insaneroot/pseuds/Insaneroot
Summary: Non-specific party setting, could be early Arkadia.Clarke and Bellamy have both had just enough to drink.POV switches with paragraphs so remain vigilant!
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Kudos: 23





	Moment's Silence

It was such a quiet moment. Though the room was filled by voices, thrown off the metal walls, echoing and flowing back and forth, it felt quiet to her. It was the ease, she decided, with which her friends were standing. No tight grip anywhere, not even a weapon in sight. No one holding on. It gave her literal peace of mind, and she felt herself smiling just faintly at the thought. Clarke was seated in the darker end of the large room, in a makeshift couch made of leftover parts, covered in rough blankets. She wasn't hiding. There was another group of three people, sitting not far away, talking excitedly in the low light. She had had enough to drink, more than ever, maybe. Not that much. But as the night proceeded, she had receded gradually into herself, relishing this new quiet. Now she was just taking a moment for herself. 

Bellamy wasn't looking for her. But he knew where she was. He saw her now, as well, on her own in the dark. He turned his back, returned to the conversation. But it was as if he was staring through himself, as if he had grown a separate mind dedicated solely to keeping an eye on her, wondering about her. Was she looking this way? Did she see him? The image of her in the corner, a little bit of light in her hair, stayed with him. He refused to turn again, refused to check if she was still there. 

She reacted to the movement, the trajectory of the person approaching slowly, stumbling. Bellamy, she realized, his features obscured by the backlight as he came to her in the darkness. He was drunk as well, she thought and smiled at him, wondering if he could see her face. His frame was dark and bulky, accentuating somehow the relaxed swaying. He had kept his armor on, then. The observation made her feel both sorry and safe.  
He came up to her, cup in hand. "This seat taken?"  
Clarke shook her head. It was always a little complicated. The demanding tone of voice, the formality between them was a product of their responsibilities. They worked well together, they talked things out, they figured out the better option. But it was difficult to see Bellamy behind the haze of politics, it was difficult to just be people together when you were stepping carefully around the opinions and old wounds between the others in the council, when every decision was crucial and no answer was right. She felt like they had had something before, when it was just the two of them calling the shots together, but that maybe they had lost it along the way.

Bellamy sat down heavily in the couch, listened to the silence between them. It seemed like he had been doing well, keeping his eyes to himself, and then as soon as the opportunity presented itself, his legs had carried him here.   
"You're not drinking?" he said, looking for her cup, getting caught in her eyes for just a little too long. He returned to looking straight ahead, into the room, at nothing.   
"Oh, I have been," she said. He stole a glance at the sound of a smile in her voice, saw her blush in the warm, flickering light. Berated himself for getting caught up, for the sound of his pulse rising just slightly, for the jolt surging through him. He had been drinking as well, no doubt about it. He put his cup down.  
"... Just taking a break." she trailed off, and now he felt the weight of her eyes on him.

"You're wearing your armor," she said. It was just the vest and shoulder pads, the jacket, but it stood out. No one had anything nice to wear, but most people had made an effort to change out of their workwear, and been happy to, she thought. She was wearing what she always wore, but it was clean for the occasion. She didn't even feel embarrassed, kicking her shoes off and putting her feet up. She scooted a little further from him on the couch, to the armrest, and hugged her legs, now looking at him without having to turn her head. He watched her as she got comfortable, an intense but slightly perplexed look on his face. Was it a weird thing to do? She was getting tired, a little cold, and she wanted to look at him when he spoke. She also wanted to see if she could break it, the glass shell of formality between them. She wanted to reach out and be met, she wanted to ask him something about himself and have an honest answer. Something stupid, something not life or death. Just a glimpse of who he was when he was alone.

He had almost forgotten the question, watching her snuggle into the corner of the couch. When had this happened? When had they stopped sleeping on the ground, keeping guard shifts, fighting for their lives every minute? When had it become possible for him to ever see her like this - not hurt, not covered in dirt, not sleep deprived, not even worried, or orderly, listening to the latest report, brow furrowed - but all curled up, shoes off, blushing, close enough that he could reach out and touch her knee, if he wanted?   
"Yeah," he said, a small catch in his throat he hoped she didn't hear. "Seems unnecessary."  
"Just for tonight, I think we might be safe," she said. Her voice was so low, he could barely hear it. The look in her eyes - almost teasing. But also comforting, understanding. Convincing. He nodded, quietly, and tugged at a strop of a shoulder pad, lost in thought, looking away again.

"Do you need help?" She was surprised to hear her own voice. She felt heat rush to her cheeks, the back of her neck, immediately. Bellamy looked at her again as the words rang out between them, and she could see the surprise there, the cogs turning. She was sure his silence seemed longer to her than it probably was, but it was long enough that she started to apologize, before he answered, voice slow, words measured out and mechanical.  
"Yeah, thank you." He let his hand fall from the shoulder strop he had been pulling at, looking forward.   
She stared. She knew she had overstepped, she felt the tension in the air, thick as a blanket. And yet he was looking down at the floor, arms on his knees, waiting. She didn't feel ready to touch him, felt safe in her corner by the armrest. But it would be even more strange to back out now. Where would that leave them?   
She let go of her knees, slowly, and shifted her weight forward to sit on them, scooting closer to him. It felt like every sound and every second coursed through her, she could see him breathing, his back rising and falling. This shouldn't be so much. Why was her heart beating?

Her touch was so light. Her fingers loosened the strops, undid the clasps of the shoulder pads first. She gave them to him and he was careful to not touch her hand when he took them. He could feel her hesitation at the vest, and he pointed to the velcro hiding the clasp on his shoulder.   
"Here."   
Her hand brushed his neck when she undid it. "Sorry."  
He let the apology hang in the air. He was listening to her movements, her breathing. Clarke only touched him where she had to, and he didn't watch her, but he could hear her pausing before every strop and clasp, as if steadying her hand, making sure she could undo it in the first try. The mood had changed so fast. It was awkward, for them both, but there was a revelation in it he had never dared hope for. Heat was crawling up his neck at the thought that she too was holding her breath.   
When the vest came off he put it to the side, and she leaned back into the corner, her legs still up in front of her, knees together and up against the back of the couch. The blush in her cheeks was pronounced now, no denying it. When he scooted closer and picked up her feet to scoot under her knees, she gasped. He saw it, too, the brief panicked look, the small "o" of her mouth as she sucked in air, the immediate surge of more red to her face. Then he couldn't bear to look any longer. He put her feet down on the other side of him and rested his hands on her thigh and knee, looking up at the ceiling, so far up.   
"Thanks, princess."

She was fighting to keep her breathing in check, because she was worried he would feel her staccato breaths on him. Her shoulder was leaning against the backrest just a hand's width from his, the backs of her ankles and shins were touching him, she was almost sitting in his lap, his hand was on her thigh. And his face was right there, the throat stretched out in full as he tilted his head back, looking up, smiling. When he looked back at her, still smiling, she didn't have to worry about breathing anymore, because it all caught in her throat. As he settled in, after the first quick movement, his hand slid - and it wasn't on purpose, she knew it was so little, just the slow give of the hard couch - but she felt those few millimeters with every inch of her being. Her whole self was lost in the sensation of just his hand, on her thigh, a little closer.

Bellamy had been bold on purpose, seen his chance and known that it was a unique moment, that letting it pass would make it more unlikely to ever happen again. He'd seen it in her, but maybe not like this, he thought, maybe it was too far. But they were all tangled now, he barely had a place to put his hands that wasn't her. And as funny as Clarke had looked when he touched her first, now she looked unsure.  
"Is this okay?" He asked, catching her eye and pulling her back from wherever she had gone. 

His smile had fallen, and he was looking at her - so close. She could count his eyelashes, maybe, if there was more light. Or his freckles. She could see every line of his brow. She could look at the curve of his lips.  
"Oh! Yes. Yeah. Mm-hm. I'm okay." She said, her words trailing off. "I, - you-," she reached up instinctively, to his face, pressing her thumb very lightly to the furrow between his eyebrows, trailing from there over his brow and to his jaw. He lifted his hand from her knee to cradle her hand and press it to his face.  
"No frowning," she said, looking in his eyes.   
His expression relaxed, but his gaze was focused on her. She felt it in the air, heard it between their hearts as if it was a word that had been spoken. He let go of the hand on his face and moved to caress her cheek, pulling very softly on her jaw, half of his hand resting on her neck as he leaned down and pulled her face to his. He waited, when they were as close as they could be, and she breathed him in, his mouth slightly open before hers. Then he kissed her, softly, pulling back after the first one, then coming back as she pulled on the neck of his shirt, leaning deeper, kissing her more deeply, shifting his hand to support himself on the couch as he leaned over her and she was pressed down and in under him. He opened his lips to her and tasted her with his tongue, and she could feel him smiling, as he kissed her, and she couldn't help but smile back, her heart beating so fast she was sure he could feel it where he was pressed to her. As they were breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers, and they laughed quietly, nervously together, at the absurdity of how they had gotten here.


End file.
